Zibeline — Volume 3 eBook

“What a pity!” again said the Duchess
to her husband, whose sole response was a shrug of
his shoulders as he glanced at his brother-in-law.

At the end of his strength, and with a streaming brow,
the gypsy leader lowered his bow, and the music ceased.

Henri de Prerolles, resuming his sang-froid, drew
the hand of Mademoiselle de Vermont through his arm,
and escorted her to her place among the other ladies.

“Bravo, General!” said Madame de Lisieux.
“You have won your decoration, I see,”
she added, indicating the rosebud which adorned his
buttonhole.

“What shall we call this new order, ladies?”
asked Madame de Nointel of the circle.

“The order of the Zibeline,” Valentine
replied, with a frank burst of laughter.

“What?—­do you know—­”
stammered the author of the nickname, blushing up
to her ears.

“Do not disturb yourself, Madame! The
zibeline is a little animal which is becoming more
and more rare. They never have been found at
all in my country, which I regret,” said Mademoiselle
de Vermont graciously.

The hour was late, and the Duchess arose to depart.
The Chevalier de Sainte-Foy, exercising his function
as a sort of chamberlain, went to summon the domestics.
Meanwhile Valentine spoke confidentially to Henri.

“General,” said she, “I wish to
ask a favor of you.”

“I am at your orders, Mademoiselle.”

“I am delighted with the success of this little
dinner,” Valentine continued, “and I wish
to give another after Easter. My great desire
is to have Mademoiselle Gontier—­with whom
I should like to become better acquainted—­recite
poetry to us after dinner. Would you have the
kindness to tell her of my desire?”

“I!” exclaimed the General, amazed at
such a request.

“Yes, certainly. If you ask her, she will
come all the more willingly.”

“You forget that I am not in the diplomatic
service, Mademoiselle.”

“My request annoys you? Well, we will
say no more about it,” said Zibeline.
“I will charge Monsieur de Samoreau with the
negotiations.”

They rejoined the Duchess, Zibeline accompanying her
to the vestibule, always evincing toward her the same
pretty air of deference.

The drive home was silent. The Duke and the
Duchess had agreed not to pronounce the name of Mademoiselle
de Vermont before Henri, who racked his brain without
being able to guess what strange motive prompted the
young girl to wish to enter into closer relations with
the actress.

A letter from Eugenie was awaiting him. He read:

“Two weeks have
elapsed since you have been to see me. I do not
ask
whether you love me
still, but I do ask you, in case you love
another, to tell me
so frankly.

“Ariadne.”

“So I am summoned to the confessional, and am
expected to accuse myself of that which I dare not
avow even to my own heart! Never!” said
Henri, crushing the note in his hand. “Besides,
unless I deceive myself, Ariadne has not been slow
in seeking a consoling divinity! Samoreau is
at hand, it appears. He played the part of Plutus
before; now he will assume that of Bacchus,”
thought the recreant lover, in order to smother his
feeling of remorse.